Petite Étoile → Luna Lovegood

The Light of the Moon

Evangeline Rosier was a sorry sight to behold. For the past five weeks, she lay in her bed, stricken with grief. Her eyes lost their lively amber colour that they used to possess, and her skin had a grey tinge to it.

By her nightstand, a letter lay opened and crumpled. This letter was the reason for all her grief and anguish, for it was in this letter she read the horrible news— her husband, Evan Rosier, was killed by Mad-Eye Moody.

Evan Rosier left the world with not so much as a goodbye, and with a little baby girl curled up in a crib, the moonlight from one of the windows shining on her sleeping form. Despite everything, the girl seemed utterly at peace.

The child didn't seem to have any effect on Evangeline as it would have had on most people. For the past five weeks Evangeline had practically neglected her, too caught up on her own misery than to cherish the one source of company she had left. It seemed as if little Étoile was always destined to be ignored, but it didn't seem to bother her. Although she was four months of age, she had not made any noise whatsoever— no cry or wail as so many babies did— she simply lay there quietly, slumbering on through her mother's misery.

The baby did have some noticeable effects because of her mother's neglection, however. She was a small thing, underfed with tufts of black hair and observant amber eyes that often lit up whenever she saw something of interest. Étoile was a perfect mix of both her Mum and her Dad.

Étoile was a curious thing; too curious, as her Mum often put it. By the age of two, she began wondering alone outside, unsupervised. Her Mum would often scold her, but after a while Evangeline realized it would not be of much good. Two year olds hardly knew anything about the dangers of the world— the dangers where Evangeline's husband had found himself dead after a brutal attack. Instead, she opted to keep a better eye on Étoile; Evangeline was by no means the most caring of mothers, but she would never forgive herself if Étoile died of the same fate as Evan.

Five years later, when Étoile was seven years old, she found herself deep in the woods neighboring their little house. Étoile always took her mother's wand with her, as she'd been instructed in case anything were to happen during her midnight endeavors. Did she know how to use a wand? Certainly not. Would she resort to a good old Muggle brawl if the opportunity arose? Definitely.

Tonight, it seemed, the full moon stood out more vibrantly than Étoile had ever seen it. A few stars littered the night sky, and the swaying trees made ominous noises in the otherwise quietude of the dark. A gust of cold wind made Étoile's long, dark hair cover her face from view. She laughed quietly, blowing her hair out of her face so she could once again be granted with the ability to see.

A sudden noise caught her off guard, and suddenly, Étoile fell to the ground with a hard slam. Opening her eyes groggily, she could make out a large figure, its long strides making its way towards her.

Étoile had never once before seen what a werewolf looked like so close up. She read about them, sure, but nothing could have prepared her for the cruelness of the beast in front of her. She felt scared, in that moment, with nothing but a wand she did not know how to use in front of her. Numbly, she felt warm liquid spill from her eyes.

Never once in her life had Étoile cried. She hadn't when she had broken her arm, or the cruel scoldings her Mum made her endure. She hadn't when a flower vase fell on top her head. But this... the pain and fear she felt as the werewolf's breath got nearer... she didn't know it was possible for her heart to beat so fast.

And a few minutes later, Étoile simply lay on the foliage of the woods, tears remaining and face red and blotchy.

Étoile was only seven, but she knew what she was. What he was.

Not just a werewolf, but a monster. A beast that could put everyone she loved at risk.